


jubilation (she loves me again)

by knifecharm



Series: i'll be right behind you [2]
Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Horror, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mild Gore, Murder, Past Relationship(s), Serial Killers, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 22:28:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30146547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knifecharm/pseuds/knifecharm
Summary: Frank and Danny make a stop in Roseville. Danny reminisces.
Relationships: Danny "Jed Olsen" Johnson | The Ghost Face/Frank Morrison
Series: i'll be right behind you [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2218830
Kudos: 15





	jubilation (she loves me again)

**Author's Note:**

> this is going to be a short 'epilogue' to road trip mix to focus a bit more on Danny's history rather than Frank's. I hope you enjoy it!

The term _home_ is subjective. 

When most people think of a home, they think of white picket fences. They think of perfectly manicured lawns, the names of the little nowhere towns they grew up in- they think of the often overpopulated playground near their apartment complexes, with rusted yellow monkey bars and swing chains that creaked and squealed like nails on a chalkboard.

Frank isn't most people. He's never quite felt at home in any one solitary _place_ \- even back in Alberta, ‘home’ was a cobbled-together collection of memories rather than a physical, somatic space; a patchwork of mental souvenirs, faded, well-loved, and bitterly departed. Home has also felt like a person. Home has felt like... _people,_ before (the ebbing thrum of three names that he’s tried his best to forget rings in his ears, even now). 

‘Home’- at this point in his life, at least- feels like one Danny Edward Johnson, the now clean-shaven man who sits beside him now in the driver’s seat of a 1994 Buick Roadmaster, his hand in its usual position on Frank’s thigh. He has a pair of Aviator sunglasses perched on the bill of his baseball cap, and, somehow, he looks younger than he did a year ago when Frank had first met him on a lonely dirt road. He still hasn’t a clue how old Danny is- he assumes that all the birth years on his multiple passports and driver’s licenses are fake since they vary over about _ten years._

Sun-bleached, squat pastel-coloured buildings dapple the horizon. Palm trees dance softly with salty afternoon zephyrs as they zip by, a cheery top-40’s song (unfortunately) playing from the stereo, distant and tinny. A bottle green signpost stands tall on the side of the road. _SMILE, YOU’RE IN ROSEVILLE!_ It reads, featuring a pair of shining cartoon veneers. Below it, POPULATION: 9578 is etched in a slighter script.

“I don’t know what I was expecting,” Frank says, peering at the back of the sign as they pass. _9578._ Three thousand more than Ormond, which isn’t saying a lot.

“What do you mean?” Danny asks. His eyes leave the road momentarily to give Frank a quick once-over.

“It’s tiny.” Though, not as backwater as his old haunt. It seems… quaint. The type of place where ‘nothing ever happens’, heavily quote-unquote. It’s hard to believe that only six years ago it’d been thrown into cataclysmically bloody chaos by the very man sitting beside him. “Eight people out of ten thousand. That’s a dent. They update the sign after you bounced, or what?” Danny’s lip curls into a half-smile as he sighs. His gaze draws off again in a way that Frank isn’t used to. Silver eyes drag across road signs and winsome little shops as they cruise down Main Street. Frank’s thrown rocks through the windows of storefronts before, both on dares and to vent frustrations, but there’s something about the cheery, pale rainbow palette of Roseville’s ‘shopping district’ that would almost make him hesitate. Almost. 

“Nope. Been there for ages.” He hums, canting his thumbs upward to point toward a diner on their left- a chalkboard placard menu for BARB & BUCK’S BURGERS leans up against the stalk of a palm tree that wobbles and lurches with the salt-spitting wind. “Same with that burger joint.” Danny’s gaze draws to the left, and Frank follows. The car slows to an abated pace. A twee, periwinkle-bricked building catches his eye. “That boutique is new, though...” Danny continues. “Used to be a tackle shop.” He sounds as if he’s reminiscing. 

“You’d make a great guide. Maybe you could do some Ghostface Killer tours around town- show off all the murder sites...” Frank says with a smirk.

“Great idea. If I ever want Roseville PD to come knocking on my door, that’ll be the first thing I do.” Danny gives him a look, laconic. Frank hums. _Thought he’d be in a better mood,_ he thinks. All things considered, they’ve been doing well for themselves to keep on schedule. 

“Don’t be a buzzkill.” He takes a loose cigarette out from his cup holder, sticking it between his chapped lips. It remains unlit, for now. He pinches it between his teeth. “You could even pawn yourself off as a Ghostface nut again. Pretty sure there's plenty of you crazy fuckers crawling all over Florida.” Like ants to sugar. “Make some true-crime journalist buddies. Shoot the shit about Bundy.”

“The people in this town couldn’t write their way out of a paper bag. It's part of the reason I left.” 

"That, and the serial killer thing?” Frank answers. The older man sighs. 

“You’re so… _observant,_ Frank." 

“And that’s why you love me." Danny’s jaw clenches, and he drops his sunglasses back down to conceal his eyes. He lets out a small huff, impatient and evidently unamused. 

“Now, while we’re here,” He looks at Frank directly. He looks like a different person in shades and a cap, his hair slightly longer and his face void of scruff. “You call me Richard. Got it?”

“Roger, Richie.” 

* * *

Without the air conditioning supplied by the Buick, Florida is _hot._ Stupid hot. His face feels like it’s on _fire_ hot. He tries to ignore the pain as Danny pays a food truck driver for a greasy paper bowl full of fried conch fritters. The two make polite conversation for what seems like hours in the muggy heat while Frank tries to find solace in the shade of a wavering palm tree, the midday sun overhead momentarily hidden. He runs a hand over his nose and chin- only to hiss and promptly retract it. 

“Fucking _ow.”_

“You’re burning,” Danny says with minimal concern as he approaches, popping a conch fritter into his mouth. He tugs at Frank’s arm gently with his free hand, drawing him back into the light. Frank frowns, squinting as the sun beats down on him once again. They pass through the gaps of interlocking shade. He feels overdressed, even in his grey basketball shorts and _Iron Maiden_ muscle tank. It’s days like these where he wishes he could just take his shirt off.

“We’ve only been out here for, like, half an hour.” He replies with a twitch of his nose. They’ve been canvassing, as they do when they reach a new town. However, they usually do so within the relative comfort of their car. Frank’s thinking that this is more of a morbid homecoming for Danny rather than just another pit-stop; every house and storefront they pass seems to pique his interest far past simple reminiscing. Occasionally, he’ll start some boring anecdote about his time spent in Roseville, but he’ll never exceed the benign. Frank frowns inwardly. He wants to hear about the nitty-gritty shit already- he can only stand so much talk about _tourist economies._

“You’re pale. And _Canadian._ You probably want to stay out of the sun unless you wanna spend the rest of this trip covered in aloe vera and zinc.” Danny says, taking another conch fritter out of the bag. “You want one?” Frank shakes his head. He isn’t all that hungry. He’s certainly thirsty, but not enough to complain just yet. Danny shrugs in return. “Your loss.” 

They continue down the street in silence as Danny eats, assessing three-story townhouses painted with shades of light pink, baby blue and pale mustard. The doors and accents are all bleach-white, nearly blinding in the direct sunlight. An ivory rail fence lines the outskirts of each quaint little yard, the yellow grass sticking out like toothpicks in the dry soil.

Suddenly, Danny stops in place. He hands Frank his paper bowl, now empty. Frank promptly tosses it toward the gutter without a beat to spare.

"What's up?" He asks, lightly checking Danny’s shoulder. His gaze draws upward to meet the place where silver eyes would be were they not covered by his Aviators. His brows are knitted in focus, and his head is slightly canted. "You've got your thinking face on." That isn’t quite correct. Danny’s _real_ 'thinking face' is a blank, unnerving canvas- a look of unwavering concentration that doesn’t reach his eyes. The older man is drawn back to the present with a deft shake of his head. 

“Just- remembering something,” Danny says pithily. Frank glances over his shoulder. 

Before them stands a house. It’s bigger than those that flank it, and painted a deeper shade of blue that matches that of the cloudless sky. An expensive-looking silver sports car has been parked in an open double-door garage, glimmering like fragments of a diamond. On the third floor is a small balcony; sunflower print bed sheets hang off the side, flickering with the wind.

"... Is their window unlocked?" He asks. Just like the Kowalczyk's- just like Veronica Marsh. They’d all gotten unlucky, but they’d also felt _safe._ Good neighbourhoods- quiet, well to do. Just like Roseville. Danny shakes his head. 

“Most likely not.” There’s a measure of pride in his tone that makes Frank’s face glow despite his apparent sunburn. Danny likes when he asks questions about his work, whether it be his writing or his killings- one of the many things he’s learned about the man over their twelve months spent together. "The back door may be unlocked, but I doubt it.” Frank bobs his head. In contrast, he’s always impressed (and, maybe, a little creeped out) by Danny’s uncanny skill of foresight. He’s just glad he isn’t on the other end of it anymore.

“So- you killed someone here, right?” He says, voice lowering. Frank breaks away from Danny, taking another step toward the house with his hands in his pockets. The dry grass tickles at his ankles. Six years ago, this place must’ve been crawling with cops, cruisers and news crews- now, it’s comfortably silent. “How d'you do it, Rich?” 

The older man quickly tugs him back toward the sidewalk. He turns, baring his teeth, only to correct himself and relax once he takes a moment to consider. _Right. Don’t be suspicious._

“Second-story window, right where an office room was.” Danny finally says, his own voice dropping to a hushed tone. "She was sleeping on the couch."

"Sleeping?" He stays back, as he's directed. Someone's probably home, anyway. He’s just... curious. Curious about Danny’s past- about the parts of his life that Frank’s never had access to, from both a bystander’s and a partner’s perspectives. As far as he knows, the Ghostface doesn’t kill people while they’re sleeping. He waits until they go downstairs to get a glass of water. He waits until they’re home alone, painting landscapes in their brightly lit art studios in the middle of the night. He waits, like a cat in the tall grass. He doesn’t slit the throats of his victims while they lay prone in bed. Unlike a cat, he wants to hear their _screams._ “That doesn't sound like you. You like a fight." Danny shrugs. Then, in such a casual fashion that it takes him off-guard, he quickly entwines his fingers with Frank’s own and gives it a squeeze. 

Danny has bitterly cold yet comfortingly large hands. They’re weathered and scarred and calloused in a way that a simple journalists can't be, like an athlete’s- like a killer’s. A part of him feels uneasy. Not because of anything Danny’s done; rather, he feels uneasy at the idea of being _seen._ He sees a group of three college-age girls across the street, jogging past the intersection in tiny stretchy shorts and crop tops. Danny tugs Frank back into a walking pace while he internally debates with himself on whether to drop his hand and keep moving. Something soft- something _tender_ stirring in the depths of his gut wins out in the end. _God. Fucker’s got me whipped._ He grips Danny’s fingers tight and half-heartedly tries to hide their joined hands with his hip.

“Admittedly, I didn’t plan it that well.” He sounds vaguely disappointed, his tone dropping an octave. “It was... a learning experience." 

“So- it was your first time?” A smirk tugs at Frank’s lips. “How'd it feel?” Danny rubs his thumb across the back of Frank's hand while a look of genuine thought passes over his visage. 

“It felt- right. Destiny, fate, all that. Like it was meant to be. It may have- partially- been an accident, but it ended how it should’ve." Frank hums. He doesn’t know if he believes in fate. He believes in manifesting, in the power of thought, in the power of an idea- or, at least, he used to.

"Feeling sentimental?" He says with a smarmy grin.

“Kind of hard not to,” Danny says, matching him with a fleeting smile.

“And- what do you mean by an accident?” Danny squeezes his hand. On their left, an old lady in a floppy wicker hat with a miniature poodle on a lead crosses the street. She gives them a smile in greeting. The dog looks like a toilet brush. 

Frank’s heart skips a beat- a hand grips around it and squeezes it tight, stealing his breath and forcing him to bite the inside of his cheek. He feels the urge to drop Danny's hand- but, instead, he moves closer to him, shielding their locked hands from view. He doesn’t want to let go. Not now. Not yet. 

Danny catches on, giving the woman a soft smile as a distraction, and a pleasant "good morning!" The smile bends into a thin line the moment she can no longer see his face. 

“It was supposed to be one of my final visits. I’d only gone there to… watch.” Watch. Stalk. Observe. Prepare. “But that night I felt… different. I felt like something else had to happen. So, it did.” 

It felt right. When Frank's with Danny, he feels right. He feels that same soft tug in his gut every time he hears Danny speak, regardless of his tone. 

Maybe that’s what he’d meant by ‘fate’. 

* * *

They sit together on their shared queen bed, Danny holding him from behind with his chin settled on his shoulder. The sheets are starchy and the AC has been cranked up to eleven, much to Danny’s chagrin. The room is dark, the only light source being the flatscreen television at the foot of the bed. A teen horror flick plays through pay-per-view- _I Know What You Did Last Summer._ Jennifer Love Hewitt hasn’t taken her top off yet, and Frank’s starting to grow bored. Too much drama and not enough gore. 

"Dan?" Frank sounds tired- withdrawn, even to himself. Danny’s hand absently plays with the hem of his shirt. He seems more focused on fidgeting, palming at Frank’s sides, and occasionally scratching at his back than he is the movie.

“Hm?” Danny’s hand stills. Frank wavers. It almost feels invasive to ask him something so personal. He has yet to tell Danny the exact details of his own ‘first time’, and thank _God_ the older man hadn’t pushed it past a vague line of questioning. He didn’t even ask for a name. _Names._ F.J.S.J. He thinks of the shoebox that sits in his duffle bag in the corner of the room, and the shitty DIY bracelet that lays within it. Frank doesn’t think he'd be able to redact his Legion from the story... But, at this point, does it matter? His nose twitches, and he feels his chest fill with a maelstrom of memory. It scratches at the inside of his head, clawing at his skullcap but not quelling the persistent itch of not-guilt. It does. It _does_ matter (he has to keep their secret, no matter the cost). He waves those stinging thoughts away, forcing himself back into the present. 

“Where'd you stab her first?” 

Danny’s gaze lingers, slowly, back toward the movie. His eyes would be blank were they not reflecting the light of the screen. His breaths are soft and steady. 

"Where did I stab who first?” _Right. Her_ must be a broad descriptor for him. ‘Her’ makes up about half of Danny’s victim base. Said man’s fingers draw up underneath Frank’s shirt again, circling his hips with delicate movements. 

“Your first. You never told me her name.” He opens himself up to the feeling, keening into it like a drowsy cat. Danny’s fidgeting is soft now, but that doesn’t mean they’ll be like that all night. He'll revel in his touch it either way. "Or, y’know, anything about her. Usually, you're pretty good with that.” 

“I figured you would have read up on her. Aren't you supposed to be the real Ghostface enthusiast here?" He sighs into Frank’s shoulder as the younger man rolls his eyes, giving Danny’s chest a playful shove.

“I never said I was a fan! In fact, I remember insinuating that you were an old bald man with erectile dysfunction." He considers his next words. He has a comeback that might get his ass kicked, but that's his prerogative. "What? You don't remember?" Danny breaks at that. His grip turns harsh- his hands drag up, stopping just below Frank’s sternum, his pointer finger digging into the pale flesh of his upper belly. Frank feels himself shudder in place- his heart rate quickens, morphing into a thrumming drumbeat. 

“Here, first. It wasn't deep. Just enough to wake her up."

Frank holds his breath, taking a moment to let his imagination run amok. He visualizes himself waking up in the middle of the night to see someone looming over him with a knife dug shallow into the skin of his sternum. He thinks of the white, ghoulish Ghostface mask that he’s since grown accustomed to after first seeing it in the trunk of Danny’s old ride. He thinks of seeing only that screaming face in the dark, the rest of his vision shrouded by shadow and thick black fabric.

"Did she scream?" He cuts off near the ending lilt. He can feel something bubbling in his throat.

“Not at first. She was more shocked than anything.” Frank nods his head. Then, he gets an idea. Slowly, he turns around, swivelling on his hips as he draws himself up to his knees. He plants himself in Danny’s lap once again, straddling him. He sees the vague outline of his smiling face in Danny’s piercing gaze. His hair is nearly all brown now. Danny had given him a trim back in Savannah, sheering it clean of splotchy blonde. 

“What would you have done differently?” They’re nearly nose to nose. He feels the heat of Danny’s breath against his neck. How would you have made her scream? “If you had the chance to do it again today, how would you do her?” Danny’s hands find their usual place on his hips, giving him a gentle yet possessive squeeze. His eyes grow blank. He’s giving it some thought.

"I’d have gone in through the back door when she was awake. While she was washing her dishes, back turned away.” Frank’s hands slowly draw down to his hips, laying overtop of Danny's. He bites his lip, tilting his chin upward. “I would’ve snuck up behind her… stabbed her right in the back, but not anywhere that’d be fatal. I would’ve drawn it out more.”

"How about..." His voice pitches deep. "You _show_ instead of tell." He feels his heart skip another beat. A smile tugs at the corners of Danny’s lips. He slides his hands back under Frank’s shirt, higher this time- his fingers cup Frank’s chest and firmly squeeze. 

“What is there to show, though?" He’s really smiling now- all teeth, sharp and white and wolfish. "I can get my knife if you'd like.” Frank’s breath catches in his throat. His eyes draw away from Danny’s- heat is quickly siphoned to his cheeks. 

“It'd make a good storytelling prop.” He's been at the end of Danny’s knife before. Hell, the guy stabbed him while he was tied to a tree until he’d passed out. He shouldn’t _want_ Danny to hold a knife to his throat again- shouldn’t want to feel the Ghostface’s blade tucked and tapered underneath his chin. But there’s something about Danny feeling so reminisce, so entranced by his own past accomplishments (if you could call them that)... He yearns to relive that memory with him. _His first._

Danny’s smile turns perverted. His hands move as if they’re going to push Frank away to get up and grab his knife out of his duffle bag, and he feels butterflies explode in his stomach. The thrumming in his chest exceeds what one might consider healthy. But instead of pushing him away, Danny’s hands pull him closer, tighter. His nails dig into Frank’s hips. They’re going to leave marks. Frank’s brows furrow and he gives Danny a pointed look. 

“Another time, dear.” _Another time._ Another time, when he can leave shallow nicks in Frank’s skin. Rather than complain, Frank presses his forehead to Danny’s- then he looks up to meet his gaze with half-lidded eyes. Within silver mirrors, he watches as two dark pits of charcoal burn.

“Promise?” With that ultimate word, Danny looks _elated._ His smile turns into a soft upward curve, and his eyes soften in a way that Frank’s never seen before. For a moment, he looks normal. He looks loving- He looks _human._

"Anything for you." He pulls Frank in for a kiss. Jennifer Love Hewitt screams in the rain like a madwoman as Danny slips his tongue past his teeth, exploratory, despite the fact that he’s already mapped every inch of his skin with those very lips.


End file.
